


Our Skins Are Only Silhouettes

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Frottage, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1852738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His fingers trace sparks against the muted tones of my mouth and I forget to listen to the dark and the celestial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Skins Are Only Silhouettes

He's on his back below my skin, empty and writhing. His curls are damp with nothing but his own sweat and they fan out beneath his skull like a net. Safe to fall, but then-- caught. My breath is hot against his skin (I can feel the reds and oranges reflecting back) but so is his against mine. 

We're supposed to be nothing but animals in this moment, brutal carnality and the glinting threads of saliva that get caught on his mouth. I need to kiss him again but there are noises burning his throat completely up and I feel it would be more savage to want to smother them. 

I'm waiting, withholding myself and disobeying the bells in my head because this particular branch of masochism tastes sweet at the back of my tongue. I need to- I need to let him know how covetous my mind has become when lit now, how it shirks dangerously from any thought beyond skin and what we have as this steady rhythm of bodies and silent voices. See, if I speak a single word of this rediscovered light then what we have is broken, much like when a silence is ripped apart by tongues the hollow syllables ring in the nothing after and it cannot revert to the emptiness of Before. This - the physical - is enough for now. 

I bend my neck so I can feel my own breath again, ghosting. I kiss his mouth, the skin tending to the bones on the left side of his face, his ear; my lungs work faster to parry my haste, I bite, run my lips over the shell of it, lick the skin and taste the everything that he is. His eyes slam shut and for a second I imagine what it feels like to be swamped in the overpowering darkness between retina and skin before he begins to rut against my thigh. Here. Here are the animals. 

He never stops moving, a constant tide beneath me. It's all I can do to survive the turbulence. I already prepared him (soft strokes, gentle murmurings where we pretended we were lovers who loved, murmurings which evolved into broken shouts and the pressure of incisors biting into plump flesh to stifle our noises - we remembered, soon enough, who we were and our silent laws) so now I slip, just minutely, just- just- in. 

And (Pretend, in this moment let the pretence drag longer than its life permits it to, pretend you love me and it's indisputable and it's a known and solid fact and it doesn't even need clarifying because it's as obvious as the water in the sea, pretend) his writhing stops - if only for a second - coupled with the opening of his eyes and a soft gasp which isn't really a gasp at all because he can't seem to find the air. But his eyes-- there's something in them. I don't think he notices. 

I know him. I know what his eyes mean, I have taught myself to speak their language. The calculating looks, narrowed, flicking glances. Hooded lids and a faltering upwards gaze; a false seduction for anyone other than me. The minute furrow of skin and sideways flicker when I stroke his ever-expanding ego-- I've learned to catalogue them even in sleep. But this is something entirely new. Wide and vulnerable and pleading and seeing. For the first time I feel as if our eyes have met completely, perfectly. 

He's looking into my thoughts and allowing me the privilege of looking right back into his. 

Understand, I've always believed that we are the improvisation, fluctuating, finding a norm as if by accident and flourishing when our own private worlds shift under our feet. We are a stilted melody on lone piano keys, drifting across miles of muted floorboard, the smell of stale hessian. We are words in ink on paper than can't ever be erased and are written and written without pause (sometimes we even make coherency). Now his eyes, now them, an accidental break of routine that somehow adds tune to melody and a structure to scratches that primitive men etched into stone, once, just once, and we climb a step. 

His hands rip caverns into my shoulders and his breath is hot and insistent against my tongue. 

(Pretend in this second, prolong it, pretend you cherish my hands on you as much as the hands do themselves, pretend you see my eyelashes as perfectly crafted and intrinsic to our survival, pretend, pretend.)

We forget to listen to the stars and the beatings of our own hearts because such formalities are erased with your breathing, with you around me. 

Pretend, pretend because I don't have to.


End file.
